The Forgotten One (The Heirs #2)

Chapter Eleven

“I’m quitting,” Max told Jeff in the yard parking lot the next morning.

“You’re serious?”

“A hundred percent. I’m not even giving Sheri notice.”

“Is this because of Santa Anita?”

“It’s a lot of things,” Max said truthfully. “Things I can’t really discuss right now. But when I can, I’ll give you a call.”

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “You’re working for a competitor, aren’t you?”

Max patted Jeff on the back as they both headed into the office. “It’s bigger than that.”

“If it’s something I can do and keeps me closer to home, share. Nicole pitched a fit when I told her about this next job.”

“She’ll like the money.” Max opened the door.

Once inside the building, Max put his hand out to shake Jeff’s. “It’s been a pleasure, man.”

Jeff slapped his palm next to Max’s and pulled in for a man-hug. “You’re coming over for Thanksgiving.”

Max patted Jeff’s back. “I’ll let you know.”

“You better.”

Jeff took the path down the hall to the break room, and Max detoured to Sheri’s office.

He rapped twice on the open door.

Sheri looked up. “Hey.”

“Hey, Sheri.”

“What’s up?”

Max stepped in and didn’t dance around what he had to say. “I’m leaving.”

Confusion marred her face. “Okay ... is there something on the truck you’re missing?”

He shook his head, leaned his weight against the frame of the door. “That’s not what I meant. I’m quitting. I came in today to tell you in person.”

Her hand dropped on her desk; her mouth gaped open. “The Santa Anita job should wrap up in two weeks.”

“It might, but it’s doing it without me.” Max took the opportunity to push for what he and Jeff had been asking for since he started working for this company. “You’re going to lose more good people if you keep accepting jobs two hours away.”

“We go where the jobs are.”

“To what end? Are you going to send a truck to San Diego? Bakersfield?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. Jeff has a family ... kids that don’t see him. But he needs this job, and you know that.”

Sheri’s glare was almost comical. “And you don’t?”

“Not anymore.”

“You’re not giving me a two-week notice?”

Max shook his head. “Now you see, that has never made much sense to me. Why is it an employer can fire you on the spot and their only obligation is to pay you for four hours of that last day, while employees are expected to give you two weeks?” Max didn’t expect Sheri to answer. He pushed away from the door. “No hard feelings on my end. This is your company, and you’ll run it as you see fit. Good luck in keeping quality employees.”

Sheri muttered a couple of obscenities under her breath and picked up her phone as Max left her office.

After shaking a few hands and saying goodbye to the guys showing up for their shifts, Max climbed into his truck and sat staring out the window.

A slow smile spread over his face as the weight of his job slid off his back.

He glanced at the time.

The clock had pushed past six thirty in the morning. This was the last time he had to get up at the butt-crack of dawn to work for someone else.

And now that the business of quitting his job was out of the way, Max picked up his phone and dialed the only person he dared to at this early hour.

Lois Lane answered the phone like a purring kitten. “This had better be good.”

“I’ve been told I am,” Max hummed right back.

“What? Wait ... who is this?”

The sound of Sarah’s voice struggling to come alive put all kinds of warm-and-fuzzies in Max’s belly.

“Do you have a lot of men calling you at this time in the morning?”

She moaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you not to call me early.”

“Sounded like a challenge to me.”

The sound of something falling and Sarah cursing had him envisioning a glass of water by her bedside splashing all over as she attempted to turn on a bedroom lamp. “Having a hard time there?”

“If you make me kill my spare glasses ... I swear ...”

“I’m not there. You can’t blame me.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been called worse. Do you have a pen?”

“Just a minute.” Something crashed to the floor.

Max derived much pleasure in the words that escaped Sarah’s mouth.

A good minute passed before she said, “Ready.”

“There’s a coffee shop on Glenoaks and Magnolia in Burbank.” He’d picked the location because it was nowhere close to where he lived and far enough out of Sarah’s way that she’d have to hustle to get there.

“Burbank? Why Burbank?”

He didn’t answer. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“An hour?” She sounded horrified.

He knew that would get to her.

Max held back a laugh but was smiling like a cat with the tail of a gecko hanging out of its mouth.

“Did you write that down?”

“Burbank. One hour,” Sarah moaned as she ended the call.

Forty-five minutes later, Max took a seat behind a small table with an empty coffee cup in front of him. He kept an eye on a traffic map that indicated the delays on the route Sarah would likely have to take to get to Burbank.

Traffic was a mess.

Max almost felt bad for her. She seemed the frenzied type and had probably worked herself up when she realized she was going to be late. He’d bet his last blue-collar paycheck that his personal Lois Lane hadn’t stayed on top of her schedule since her parents stopped waking her up to go to school.

The coffee shop filled, both the drive-through and with the patrons walking in. A few people found their perches, plugged in their laptops, and closed off the world with earbuds. Most, however, were grabbing coffee and jumping back in their cars.

Ten minutes past the hour, Sarah arrived.

He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Sarah all but ran into the building, her eyes frantically searching the space until her gaze landed on him.

Her shoulders snapped back, and her pace slowed as if she had all the time in the world.

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to make it,” he lied as he put his phone face down on the table.

“If you’d given me more than an hour, I would have been here on time.” Sarah slid into the chair opposite him and tossed her purse on the table.

“You’re the one that requested a public place.”

“Yeah, but not this early in the morning.”

“Look around.” He spread his arms out. “Half the world is awake.”

“The smarter half is still in bed.” Sarah eyed the barista behind the counter. “I need coffee.”

“Great. I like my coffee black. Nothing fancy.”

Her eyes moved to his.

When he made no move to reach for his wallet, Sarah rolled those expressive eyes behind her glasses and pushed to her feet.

Max studied her as she waited her turn in line.

She’d managed to put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. The green and gold sweatshirt had a picture of a duck on the back.

Max wasn’t one for college football, but he’d bet Lois Lane was a University of Oregon alumni. Beat-up Converse tennis shoes covered her feet, and she carried a simple black purse that looked large enough to pack a notebook or maybe an iPad or tablet of some sort.

And extra glasses.

Max actually felt bad about her broken glasses.

She returned to the table with their coffee and took her first sip.

Her eyes rolled back with pleasure. Her lips parted.

Max shifted in his seat, finding her joy in the coffee strangely erotic.

“Is that some Frappa-sugary-soy-almond-milk concoction?”

Those eyes stared over the frame of her glasses, which had slipped on her nose. “Do I look like a Frappuccino kind of girl?”

“Yes,” he said, deadpan. “You do.”

She shook her head. “The only coffee worth drinking is black—otherwise, it’s just a milkshake.”

“Who is the guy that taught you that?” Maybe that was sexist, but he didn’t know a woman who didn’t put a little something in her coffee.

“My father.”

Max liked the man already.

“Since we’re here for business and not a coffee date, let’s skip the family conversation and get down to it.”

Little did she know ... family was at the core of this conversation. “This isn’t a date?”

“Ha ha. If it was, I’d already be out the door. A man who won’t spring for a simple cup of coffee isn’t worth my time.”

Max wanted to know more.

He pushed the cup in front of him to the side and placed his elbows on the table. “And what does it take to be worth your time, I wonder?”

Her hand stopped halfway to her mouth, and she slowly put the coffee back down. “Are you serious right now?”

“Half,” he said.

“I have some information for you. Do you want it or not?” she snapped.

He leaned back again. “What’s it going to cost me?”

“I want to know what the connection is between you and Aaron Stone.”

“I’m not ready to give all that to you.”

“What about part of it?”

“So you can make up the rest?”

She looked offended. “That’s not how I operate. I didn’t even tell my boss I knew who you were yet.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a shark. And once he gets a whiff of blood, he won’t let off until he has the whole bite.”

“Then you do write for a tabloid.”

She didn’t confirm or deny.

“Why not a big newspaper? The University of Oregon isn’t a Podunk school that gives out questionable degrees.”

Her jaw dropped. “How do you know I went to the University of Oregon?”

Max lowered his gaze to her chest and then moved back up.

Sarah followed his eyes. “Oh.”

“Answer the question. Why a tabloid?”

She rolled her eyes. “You need experience to get on as a staff writer for more reputable establishments, and to get experience, you have to publish somewhere. I started at the ...” Sarah paused, stopped herself, and then continued. “The magazine ... I write for.”

“Are you good at what you do?”

“I’m an exceptional writer ... but I don’t write fiction. I know that tabloids have a reputation for doing that, and yes, that happens where I work, but I don’t. And when the day comes that I want a spot on the employee roster of the Times , or the Journal ... I’ll have a complete portfolio of truthful, well-written stories to help me land that job.”

He liked the fire in her spirit, along with her self-confidence. “What information do you have for me?”

“How big is this story?”

“Big.”

“Anything illegal?”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Aaron Stone is dead. Does your big story have anything to do with his death?”

Max busted out a laugh that turned a few heads in the coffee shop. “Now I know you’re a tabloid reporter.”

“It’s not that big of a stretch.”

He regarded her with a tilt of the head. She asked the question but didn’t hold a hint of concern in her eyes.

“If I had anything to do with Aaron Stone’s death, the last person on the face of the planet I would talk to is a reporter trying to unfold a story.”

She pushed her glasses up, reached for her purse, and removed a notebook and a pen. “Didn’t think so.”

“Glad we have that straight. I’d hate to think you were unintelligent enough to even have coffee with someone you suspected of foul play.”

She glanced up as if she had something to say on that subject, then shook her head and closed her purse. “The person that tipped off my boss was a woman.”

Sarah switched gears faster than he did. “Did she give you a name?”

“Only yours and Stone’s.”

“Did she say she was calling other magazines?”

Sarah waved a single finger in the air as if saying no. “When your story breaks, will it have local or global reach?”

“Stone hotels are everywhere.”

“Global, then.” She wrote in her notebook. “We don’t know if she called other magazines or papers. Have you had any other reporters reach out to you?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you’re expecting them.”

He let her assume that.

“Why can’t I find anything about you on the internet?” she asked.

“I’m just an average guy that doesn’t like social media.”

She looked up from her pad. “Average guys don’t have the keys to Aaron Stone’s estate in Beverly Hills or wear hundred-thousand-dollar watches.”

The minute those words came out of her mouth, his gaze moved to his wrist. Jesus ... did the watch cost that much? “They sell knockoffs everywhere in LA.”

Now it was Sarah’s turn to have the cat-ate-the-canary smile. “You want me to believe that.”

He started to lift his hand from the table, and she quickly reached out and grabbed it.

Her hand was soft and small but surprisingly strong. Sarah dropped the pen on the table and moved his sleeve farther up his arm to examine the timepiece he’d pulled from Aaron Stone’s closet.

She ran a finger over the edges of the watch as if she were caressing the lobe of someone’s ear. “Brands worthy of knockoffs are the ones that are known everywhere. Rolex, Movado, Omega ... Cartier. Brands that people buy for their name alone. Brands that ‘tell’ the world the person wearing it has money. This ... this is a Roger Dubuis. And not just any Roger Dubuis ... although that would still run somewhere in the tens of thousands. You see these exposed dials? I think they call this tourbillon . Something to do with the accuracy of the watch in keeping time. This is not something you see in any common watch. Extra dials on an average watch serve a purpose for diving and altitude”—she waved a hand in the air, her voice softening—“that kind of thing. This one, you see the inner workings, but the only thing this does is tell time. Nothing more. It’s light, right?”

“It is.”

“I’m guessing it’s made with titanium.” Sarah slowly moved his sleeve down, patted his hand, and sat back in her chair. “You probably have something north of a quarter million dollars on your wrist right now. Which means you, Max Smith, are nowhere near ‘average.’”

Max had no idea if what she said was true, but he believed her word for word. And it was hot, hearing her purr over the markings on the watch and seeing her eyes take in the details. She was wearing Converse shoes that had holes in them, for crying out loud, and he was turned on as if she’d walked in the door in a strapless black dress and four-inch heels. “How do you know so much about watches?”

“My father.”

“Your father owns one of these?”

She barked out a laugh. “Only in his dreams.”

Max leaned forward once again; his eyes fixed on her. “Tell you what, Sarah McNeilly ... I’ll make a deal with you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll give you your story.”

She started to smile.

“On one condition.”

She tilted her head.

“You have to write the truth. Nothing fabricated, nothing tabloid-worthy for the purpose of only selling copies or expanding the magazine subscription quotas. I’m working right now with people that want to control what is released and when.”

“A management team?”

“Something like that.” Max wasn’t sure what Chase had called them.

“You’re going to feed me what I need to write? How do I know it’s the truth?”

“I won’t feed you lies.”

“Good.”

“When will I get my story?”

“Not long. And if there is any word breaking, you need to be prepared to type fast. We want the truth written first.”

“You have a deal.” She reached a hand across the table.

Max almost laughed at it.

Instead, he took her small hand in his and gently shook on their agreement.

When he didn’t let go right away, she looked into his eyes.

Silence stretched between them.

Her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink before she pulled away.

In that moment, there was no doubt in his mind that Little Miss Lois Lane had a little more on her mind than a story.

And Max intended to exploit that at the first possible opportunity.